With Teeth

**I tried to sing myself through, tried to get to the other side
I got to patch up the cracks in the holes that I have to hide
For a little bit of time we've been making it work okay
Just long enough to really make it hurt**

-

Harry stumbled blankly through the portrait hole after his detention with Snape. There were times when he really wondered if he would ever feel anything again; emotions seemed to have been replaced with a dead weight in the center of his chest. He was torn between furious with the fact he had to stay up half the night polishing trophies by hand, and not caring if he never got back to the dorms to sleep. He was sure he wouldn’t find sleep anyway. He’d just lie awake, not thinking about anything in particular, except maybe (okay, most likely) a certain Slytherin that haunted his waking dreams. He knew there was nothing to do about it, and a part of him was sure it was simply an unattainable infatuation that he had created to torture himself. He wasn’t even entirely sure about what he wanted from Draco anyway.

Harry shook his head, trying desperately to clear it of thoughts like that. He wanted to go to bed, and just forget everything. He tip-toed up the stairs to his bed, simultaneously hoping everyone was asleep by now, and wanting them to have stayed up for him. He was both relieved and annoyed when he found the lights off in the room. He shuffled softly to his own bed, sitting down and closing the curtains tightly.

He leaned back on his bed, and closed his eyes, holding his temples with his fingers. A shaky breath escaped his lips, and he swallowed hard, trying to stave off any more extreme swing in mood. He started trembling gently, but soon he couldn’t hold his hands still. He closed them into fists repeatedly (an attempt to control them), but somehow couldn’t keep his foot from tapping against the cover. The pressure in his chest and in his head built, and he felt the need to get up, pace, do something. He couldn’t risk waking anybody, though. If he woke somebody, questions would follow. He didn’t think he could talk to anybody, especially not during one of these attacks.

Trying desperately to keep his breathing under control he bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and was overcome by a powerful wave of dizziness. Falling onto his side, he curled into a ball and gently rocked back and forth. He hoped the motion would distract his inner turmoil, but he was losing his sense of touch along with everything else. The knife fell out of his robes and he stared at it. He had pocketed it earlier in his rush to get to class on time, and completely forgotten about it. He stilled suddenly, though the pressure on the inside had reached an almost unbearable level. He simply stared at the metal, contemplating it. The blade always seemed to have that mental calming effect on him, and even though his breath was still coming in soft pants, he felt just the tiniest bit better. He reached out tentatively, sure that touching the knife would cause something dangerous to happen, but he closed his fingers around it. Something stirred on the inside and he sat up slowly, his breath slowly coming easier.

Opening the blade, he tested the edge with a fingertip. The cool feel of the metal was enough to make him shiver, and he quickly re-adjusted himself so that he was once again playing the knife along his thigh. His heart-beat thudded loudly in his ears, and he licked his lips nervously. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth, and sat up straighter, leaning into his knee. He stared hard, following the trail the blade made. He found the spot he failed on earlier, and pressed the tip into the dent that was still there. He closed his eyes, applying more and more pressure. Just as he was about to make the cut, he pulled back. Suddenly paranoid about germs, he grabbed his wand and cast a quick scourgify,.

Harry’s heart thudded hollowly in his chest, louder than before. He could feel the adrenaline flooding his system, and he got back into position to try again, but his hand seemed frozen where it was. He dug the nails of his other hand into his palm, and tried to push harder, but he just couldn’t. He gritted his teeth, furious with himself for being such a pansy. He could never actually do it, no matter how much he wanted to. He let out a frustrated noise, and angrily threw the knife to the bed.

“I can’t take this anymore…”

He got up, and reached into his trunk for his invisibility cloak. He threw it on before even leaving the room, not caring how much noise he made for once. The Fat Lady mumbled in sleepy indignation as she was forced to swing open. He stomped through the corridors, the steam quickly blowing off. Finally he slowed to a quiet sort of meditative stroll. He didn’t care where he was going, but he wasn’t in a hurry to get there anymore. He strode past the paintings and tapestries, and took them all in. It had been so long since he had really looked at everything in the castle, and he took the opportunity now. Most of them were asleep, so he didn’t get to see everything there was, but there were some interesting ones he hadn’t noticed before.

He followed a particularly enchanting stretch of art, and wasn’t really paying attention to what parts of the castle he was going through. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he’d managed to make his way through the dungeons. He recognized the Slytherine common room entrance, and was shocked by how far down he’d gotten. He wasn’t ready to go back yet, as he hadn’t really ever explored that far down in the castle, so he kept going. He was no longer paying attention to the paintings, so much as the architecture around him. It was almost comfortable, if not a little on the colder side.

Harry followed a hallway just past the stairs leading down to the Slytherine common room. He noticed the air getting slightly cooler, and a little damp. The tapestries disappeared from the walls, and even the sconces holding the torches lighting the way grew less and less elaborate. The entire area seemed so cold and uninviting, so drab and dull, that Harry no longer had any desire to be there. He was about to turn around, just go back to bed, when he heard a shout followed by a choked sob.

“What the hell was that?”

His voice echoed through the corridor, reverberating, and growing louder. He winced, convinced that someone would hear, and he would miss whatever trouble was happening. However, Harry was still the Saviour of the Wizarding World and whatever trouble WAS happening, he was going to go and find out. So he ran down the hall, as quietly as possible, looking for the source of the noise. The further he got, the clearer he heard. The choked sob turned into a keening inarticulate plea, and then, curiously, a sharp thwack.

“That’ll teach you to cry, you little pansy!”

Harry skidded to a stop, dumbfounded by what he heard. He rounded a corner and the light grew brighter, the air a little warmer. It seemed to be coming from a room in the center of the corridor, its door slightly ajar. Harry approached cautiously, now more curious as to the goings on in that room, rather than suspicious. Another sharp thwack resounded through the air, followed by a muffled sob. Harry stepped closer, and his jaw dropped at the scene unfolding before him.

“I told you to stop fucking crying!”

Harry’s eyes were glued to a figure on his knees in the center of the room. His arms were tied behind his back with strips of buckled leather, and another strip of leather through his mouth had a large red ball muffling any noise he tried to let out. A strip of cloth was tied around his eyes, and the material looked soaked.

Standing above him, with his back to the door, stood a figure draped in black leather pants. Buckles adorned the legs, and studs ran down the seams. A riding crop lay in the figure’s hand and he moved slowly, circling the bound body. Harry’s eyes followed the figure, moving over the straps falling from the sharp hips, up the smooth muscled torso, across the wide milky shoulders, over the tousled platinum locks. The figure turned around and Harry was shocked to see that it was Draco Malfoy holding the riding crop (and also by how sexy he looked in scant but a bit of leather).

“You make me sick, you sniveling little cry-baby. Can’t even stand up and be a man. Who do you think you are to deserve to even kneel at my feet?”

Harry could see the bound figure shaking, trying to hold back more tears. Draco crooked the crop and brought it down hard on the leather-covered arms, leaving a fresh red welt to join the rest. A weak sob slipped from the gagged lips and Draco pivoted, back-handing him. He fell to the floor, lying on his side. He tried to curl into a ball, but Draco stepped on his face grinding the dirt from the bottom of his shoe into the red cheek. Draco removed his foot and spit on him, marring the figure further. Leaning down, he grabbed a handful of brown hair and wrenched the head up-wards. He whispered some words into the man’s ear and leaned back, slamming his head back into the floor.

The entire time Harry stood enraptured. The scene before him was so fascinating he couldn’t move. Harry had never thought about this sort of thing before, but now that he was faced with it he was aware of an uncomfortable tightness in his crotch.

Draco stood up straight and turned around, pausing long enough to pull a long thin stick from a back pocket. He tossed it nonchalantly behind him, and it landed on the figure still bound on the ground. He made his way towards the door and Harry froze, convinced he had been caught. He started to sweat, and backed up clumsily. Draco paused, mere feet from where Harry stood. He looked over Harry curiously, then behind him, then down the hall. He stared at Harry again, then shook his head as if shaking off a bad feeling. He passed him by and strode confidently down the hallway, towards the main corridor and the Slytherin common rooms.

Harry fell back against the wall not at all sure why he’d just managed to get away, when he felt the sheen of fabric against his skin. He remembered the invisibility cloak, and would have started laughing if someone had not just walked out of the room. He didn’t recognize him, but could tell he was an upper-classmen. The dazed face looked both ways down the corridor, almost nervously. He smoothed his hair back, and followed Draco’s path out of the hallway.


**


Harry clambered through the portrait hole, The Fat Lady once again protesting sleepily. He didn’t pay attention to any noise he made; he didn’t bother trying to cover up his absence or re-entrance. He was slightly numb, in shock. What he had seen made him question himself, but he couldn’t figure out why. He knew it turned him on, but it also made him feel slightly sick to his stomach. He was used to conflicting emotions, but he didn’t know what to do with this particular taste in his mouth. He stumbled up the stairs towards his bed, tugging off the cloak. He finally took a moment to care about being caught as he slowly nudged open the door, tiptoeing to his bed. He tensed as a couple of the boys turned over in their sleep, but no one woke up and Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he lowered himself onto his bed.

Drawing the curtains, Harry undressed himself getting comfortable for sleep. Once between the covers he knew he wasn’t really tired, but he didn’t have it in him to stay up any longer. His mind replayed the scene in the dungeons over and over again: the boy on his knees, bound and gagged; Draco beating him and yelling at him, the leather and metal adorning both bodies. The heat in his chest was spreading down and he fidgeted, not at all sure that he truly wanted to wank over an accidentally-discovered bondage scene involving two guys.

That fact didn’t stop the heat from hitting his crotch, though, and it spread until the tightness got worse. The more he thought about what he saw, the more he wanted to do something about the physical sensation he was experiencing. His hand drifted over the blanket lying atop him. He spread his fingers out, and traced the outline of his body, stopping short when his hand bumped into something hard and ice cold to the touch. The knife… Remembering the reason he was exploring the dungeons in the first place, he palmed the blade pulling it open and smoothed his fingers over the sharp edge.

Sliding his hands and their prize under the duvet, he traced the blade’s tip along his skin moving over his stomach. He fingered his navel, dipping the tip of the knife in briefly, delighting in the tense shiver it sent down his spine. Goosebumps cropped up over his skin, making his flesh feel taut, and he traced the knife lower; under the edge of his underpants and over his legs, down then up over his inner thighs. He moved slowly, dragging out the feeling.

He moved the fingers of his other hand over his throat then down to caress his nipples, delighting in the contrast between his normal flesh, and that of his aroused body. Swallowing hard he moved lower, and lower, finally coming to the nest of curls that signified what he really wanted to touch was close. He massaged his skin gently, the image of Draco clad so provocatively never leaving his mind’s eye.

Finally his hand rested around his cock, and he sighed at finally having contact. Squeezing firmly, his breath was already beginning to pick up. His first hand continued to caress his flesh with the blade. He concentrated the tip on the sensitive spot just inside his hips under the ‘v’ of his pelvis, each swipe of the knife conjuring a twitch that tightened his hold on his length. Small whimpers escaped, ruining his conscious attempt at not waking his roommates. He felt himself moving closer to the edge, and he worked quicker and smoother. The scene in his head changed slightly; the point of view altered drastically, to where Harry himself was the object of punishment. His cock pulsed at the difference. He imagined not being able to move, being at someone else’s mercy, and he choked back a cracked sob at how badly he suddenly needed to come.

His control over the knife slipped a little and the tip dug in deeper, but either Harry didn’t notice or it simply served to bring him closer. He quickened his movements, and cut deeper. He felt the sting blushing forth on his side, a miniscule amount of something warm and sticky barely making itself known through the haze in his mind as he squeezed tighter around the base of his cock, pulling tight to the end. He increased the slight pinch at the head of his heat, and he was sure that he would wake somebody, but he was so close he didn’t care. He felt an imaginary blow across his back, something sharp and hot, and he could feel the thin line of heat from the cut the knife managed and the tightness in his abdomen. They all combined to become too much and it tipped him over the edge, spiraling down into numbing spasms of blinding white pleasure.

He came to, what felt like hours later, having fallen into a clean deep sleep. The inside of his sheets felt mucky and he lifted his covers, making a face at the mess covering his belly. Between the blood and come, he thought his shorts needed burning. Instead he reached for his wand, magically cleansing the area. He rolled over, the scene running through his head again. He felt dirty. Both for spying, and because it got him so hot he had to ‘take matters into his own hand’ so to speak.

He shuddered when he thought about it; he didn’t want to think of himself as a pervert, and that’s exactly what the scene of him wanking to the memory of spied-bondage made him feel like. He shook his head and pressed his hands to his temples briefly, before letting go and letting sleep slowly take over again.

-

**You can push it all out, you can try to pretend
But you can’t change anything, you can’t change anything, in the end**